Sins of the Piano Man Outtakes
by solareclipses
Summary: Outtakes from the saga AU fic, Sins of the Piano Man. Will feature extras from Bella and Edward's POVs, as well as bits and pieces from other characters.
1. Sept 14, 2008: The Meeting

**_Author's Notes (August 1, 2010):_**_ Welcome to SotPM's outtakes! This particular outtake is from chapter five ("Man vs. Self"). Originally, I'd planned to write Bella and Edward's meeting from Bella's point of view, but I changed my mind. Still, I figured some of you might enjoy (or even prefer) broken-lovely-bitchy Bella's take on things, and so here it is. For those curious: most outtakes from SotPM will be from POVs _other than_ Edward or Bella's and will contain interesting tidbits that aren't necessary for understanding the story, but might give you some insight into the characters that you might not otherwise have._

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**"SINS OF THE PIANO MAN OUTTAKES"  
****CHAPTER 05 OUTTAKE: THE MEETING**

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**ISABELLA SWAN**

I slept deeply…for an hour, and then I was awake with a full bladder and a pounding head. Coffee. I fucking needed coffee.

I found Ian in the kitchen, humming some tune to himself as he fried bacon in a skillet. Ironically, I thought it might be "I Kissed a Girl" by Katy Perry, but it was too early for me to really assess anything accurately. "Good morning, Bella! In the mood for breakfast?" Ian said cheerfully when I rounded the corner. Turned as he was, I could see the khaki apron he had on, which had a small sketchy shape of a T-Rex on it beside the phrase "Gay marriage killed the dinosaurs."

Any other time, I'd enjoy his peppiness, but not this early and not this hung over. I forced a smile to my face. "It was a long night, so I think I'll pass on the food for now. Do you have coffee?"

He snickered and nodded toward the full and waiting pot. _My salvation. _I trudged over and took one of the set out mugs and began pouring. Unfortunately, and despite all the practice I'd had at pouring coffee as a waitress, I wasn't fully functioning yet and over-filled the cup, so that coffee spilled all over the countertop. "Motherfucker," I said under my breath. _What is it with me and coffee lately?_ At least I wasn't boiling mostly-innocent nut sacks today.

A quiet chuckle made me look up toward the long, rectangular breakfast table. Sitting there, reading a newspaper, was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. And he was staring straight at me, a look of combined amusement and curiosity on his flawless, ghostly-pale face. I immediately felt the heat rise to my cheeks. Surely he hadn't heard me…

We stared at each other for several long seconds, and his stare morphed into something harder the longer he looked at me, until he was glaring at me with his strange, golden eyes. It was uncomfortable, as if he was trying to unlock all my secrets, just by staring me down. _What the fuck is your problem?_ I wanted to ask—but didn't. I was only ever that ballsy in my head.

I managed to tear my eyes away from the man and back to the evidence of my clumsiness. "Uh, Ian? Do you have something I can clean this up with?"

Ian looked over, gave a laugh that only furthered my embarrassment, and tossed me a dishrag from the kitchen sink. "Use this."

As I cleaned up my mess, I found myself wanting to look back at the breakfast table and _Mr. Greek God_. I bit into my lip until I felt pain. _Don't look over. Don't look over. Don't look over._

So I didn't.

Not…entirely.

I used my peripheral vision, instead. _Maybe if I don't look at you straight on, I won't be blinded._

The flawlessness of the man's skin was only interrupted by the bronze stubble that was littered along his angular jaw, chin and upper lip. It matched the hair on his head, which sat in a chaotic yet somehow perfect mop, small licks sticking up in every direction, as if he'd just walked in from the wind outdoors. _Or a photoshoot with fans._ Maybe he hadn't brushed it since waking. Or perhaps that was sex hair… I sighed. I bet he had a supermodel girlfriend. _Lucky supermodel girlfriend._

He had stopped looking at me and was instead reading his newspaper again, a pair of black wire-rimmed glasses settled low on the bridge of his straight, Romanesque nose. They were pulled down so low that I suspected he wasn't even using them, given the angle of the paper. I wondered if he was wearing non-magnified lenses for vain aesthetic purposes, as Renée had for a few months when I was eleven. She'd thought they made her seem more sophisticated, which I believed was a crock of shit until—sure enough—she started getting asked out by men with college degrees and "real" jobs.

I stared at the man's hair again. _You're probably a prick_, I thought. _The good looking ones always are._ Jacob had been, after all.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, too?" I suddenly heard myself asking him. What the hell was I doing?

Even though I felt the blush creeping in again, I tried to force my face into a relaxed smile, even as I internally chastised myself. _Oh my God, shut up! I don't want him looking at me. I'm still in this floppy ass shirt. Not attractive! And he was obviously annoyed with me a moment ago._

His face didn't tilt away from the paper, but his eyelids lifted up to reveal those stunning, golden irises that I immediately got lost in, like some silly, virginal teen. I had only seen eyes like this among one family, and that was the Cullens. They were beautiful, too, like models or perfectly crafted dolls—or, hell, _gods_. I wondered if this man was related to them somehow and how that might be possible, considering all the Cullen kids had been adopted by Carlisle and Esme.

Although I had always wondered why they all looked so much alike, if that was the case…

A brilliant, crooked smile lifted his lips, as if he was aware of how uncomfortable he was making me—as if it _amused_ him. "No thank you. I don't drink coffee." His voice was just as perfect as he was, smooth like velvet.

His eyes returned to his newspaper. I'd apparently been dismissed, like the scummy, oversized-shirt-wearing, hung over, clumsy girl I was.

_Yep, he's a prick._

I spooned sugar into my coffee as I tried not to feel disappointed by his unfriendly demeanor. I nodded absently, pulling myself from the trance-like state he'd put me in, and shuffled over to the table. I told myself to ignore him, no matter how beautiful he was. There was nothing there for plain, dead-end-job me.

I sat opposite of him with my cup of coffee, on the other far end of the table, near a window that overlooked Gary and Ian's immaculate backyard. Putting as much distance as possible between me and the other guest helped clear my head.

There were a few white and yellow flowers blooming in the gardens as they enjoyed the last month or so of warmth and light that autumn could impart. Too bad it wouldn't be warm again anytime soon. I thought about how I used to lie in the sun on cooler, early-spring days in Phoenix. The thought of the warm sun made my eyes flutter. No matter how long I lived in these cold and cloudy places, I longed for sun and warmth.

"Not a morning person?" the beautiful man suddenly asked me.

My eyes snapped open wide. Well, I was fucking awake now, wasn't I? My heart pounded in tandem with my head. "No, I guess not." I frowned. "You sure seem to be, though." He was in dark jeans and a light blue, knit shirt that fit snugly along his muscular arms, and though it was all very simple attire, he looked perfect—crazy windblown sex hair and all. My wandering gaze saw that the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a few dusty-colored hairs that I definitely wanted to see more of; from then on, it was nearly impossible to look at his face.

_I'm such a hypocrite. Couldn't stand Hal's objectification, but here I am eye-fucking this complete stranger. Classy. Real classy._

He smirked slightly and shrugged. "I'm not sure about that. I keep rather…_odd hours_." Removing his glasses and setting the newspaper down, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes. It looked strange, somehow out of place, as if he were performing an act, rather than actually relieving tension.

I wanted to hear his voice again and so asked, "What brings you here?" I took a sip of my coffee, in an attempt to give my sweaty palms something to do. The liquid nearly burned a hole in my mouth, and I almost felt sorry for Hal. _Almost._

"Well, this was one of the few quieter places that allowed pets," he said, while looking to the backyard, where his dog Lucky was now in view. His gaze was soft and loving, and I melted a little at the expression. "And music," he added a moment later with a genuine, infectious smile that had me grinning with him. "Gary and Ian have a lovely instrument in the room I'm staying in. I've been helping a pianist with some composition work."

He was a composer? He was so young—my age, give or take a few years. Either he was a prodigy or a workaholic. Either way, he was light years out of my league with that shit. I couldn't even hold a fucking job at Hal's.

"So you were the one in the music room," I said, attempting to keep our relatively friendly conversation going, if only to hear more of his voice. "You were playing last night."

"Did I wake you?" He frowned deeply. "I'm sorry, I—"

I waved a hand at him. "I sleep a little strangely when I've had a lot to drink…and, well, I did last night. Besides," I said, my voice quieting in my shyness, "you play beautifully. I'm glad I was awake to hear your music. Even if a lot of it is very sad."

"Not everyone thinks it is. There are many opinions about what my music means and sounds like."

How could anyone think that his music _wasn't _heartbreaking? "I don't think they're _really_ listening, then," I muttered stubbornly.

He grinned. "You're right. Most don't." He leaned back in his chair again, but this time the action seemed genuine and tired. His eyes grew distant and pensive as he stared out at the gardens. "Many listen because others do or because they believe that listening to piano music somehow makes them more sophisticated, either in reality or just through social perception. Few try to read between the lines, when it comes to instrumentation."

I snorted. "That sounds about right." I was no musician, but I understood that people saw and heard what they wanted to, ignoring facts whenever it was easier and more convenient to do so.

Charlie had been the chief for the Forks Police Department for twenty-five years, but the day he'd had to retire because of the lung cancer, it was as if everyone he'd ever worked with or taken care of took that to mean they could move on or glaze over the ultimately fatal outcome of his illness. People didn't want to look deeper and deal with the truth. Maybe it was that thinking of Charlie's mortality made them face their own.

Really, only the Cullens—and to a lesser extent, the Webbers and Lauren's dad Edgar—had continued to be there for Charlie and me. Everyone else just acted like everything was okay, unthinkingly asking my father when they saw him if he was "enjoying his retirement." It's pretty fucking hard to enjoy your retirement when you're vomiting because of chemo.

Beating down my depression, I asked, "What's your inspiration?"

The man's brow furrowed slightly before he coughed against his fist. "So, you're here with friends," he said, completely changing the subject.

_What? Don't want to reveal your secrets?_

Pfft. _Talented, gorgeous prick._

I answered him, anyway. "They surprised me. Coming here was a birthday gift."

"_Your_ birthday, then?" he asked.

I frowned down at my coffee. "Yeah." I hated getting older.

"Well, happy birthday," he said, sounding somehow shy and insecure. It was in complete contrast to everything else about him.

I looked back up at him slowly, happy to know that even _Mr. Greek God_ had moments of awkwardness. "Thank you," I told him.

We were silent for a moment before I heard Lauren and Angela's voices mixed in with a deep baritone that I assumed was Gary's. They entered the kitchen as they discussed the weather.

Angela and Gary seemed comfortable with the early morning hour, but Lauren still had messy hair and bleary eyes. I watched sadly as she looked nervously at the man at the other end of the table. New men always scared her a little.

"Did you have a good night?" Angela asked me with a smile.

I wanted to groan, because, despite the symphony-worthy concert that I'd listened to, last night had been hell. I returned her smile, though, and said, "Yeah, I slept really well." I was a better liar than I used to be, and I didn't want Lauren or Angela to feel like they'd wasted their money on me.

Angela started in on her chemistry class, then, fretting over the upcoming tests and asking for my notes, since I'd already taken the class during my freshman year of general studies, but she was coming up on it as a part of her core requirements. I'd already agreed to give her everything I had—_three times_—but she was pedantic that way. A _B_ to Angela was the same as an _F_.

Lauren looked at me sympathetically as she stabbed a fork into some scrambled eggs. "Have you had breakfast?" she asked, interrupting Angela's academic breakdown.

I shook my head as she offered me a piece of bacon. "Thanks, Lauren, but I'm not hungry." Really, I just fucking wanted coffee and some quiet…and maybe to ogle the piano player across from me.

But life isn't fair, so I knew I wouldn't get that.

Gary, who was thick around the middle and built like a lumberjack, placed a plate of apples and oranges on the table. "Warm in here," he said, while going to lift the kitchen window open.

A comfortable morning breeze sifted through the window onto my face, and I let out a deep sigh.

I heard a quiet crack at the other end of the table a moment later, the sound of snapping bone or wood. I nearly gasped at what I saw.

Gone was the golden-eyed piano player. In his place was an equally beautiful man, the same man, but somehow darker, angrier—_hungrier_ looking. Coal black eyes stared out of the pale-skinned face, looking inhuman, like a demon, a possessed man from some horror movie. This wasn't a B-grade one, either. There were no funny Wilhelm screams here, no cheap and cheesy ketchup blood. His glare was sinister, the lines of his mouth and jaw so hard and angular and menacing that I knew there was a good chance that I'd have nightmares about it.

I was frozen, my eyes locked with the man's, my skin tingling.

The kitchen and the people around us buzzed with life and sound and conversation, but we were caught in a bubble, a world of our own.

I'd never felt so intimidated, so confused, so frightened and excited before. I imagined a million scenarios in his black vortex stare.

Many of my imagined scenarios were horrific, borne of the anger I saw in his eyes, and filled with blood and gore and flickering, cinematic film grain. I thought of _Hannibal Rising_, of Hannibal Lecter wiping splattered blood off his face, only to lick it a moment later.

I should have been more unnerved than I was—more unnerved by the man's black-eyed stare, more unnerved by my vivid imagination.

Other scenarios were more enticing, even if still brutal in their own right.

Him fucking me—_hard_—against the wall, on the kitchen countertops, on the breakfast table, on the floor; above, below, behind. I'd never even done anything that wild before, and I'd only ever seen russet-colored native skin against my own paleness, but I imagined this man's pallor now—covering me, entering me, _consuming_ me.

I knew I was tomato red, but I couldn't look away.

It was a slow and very subtle change, but I eventually saw the man's gaze soften. His eyes remained black, his nostrils still flared like a bull's, but the muscles around his brows relaxed just slightly. Ignoring his black eyes, he almost looked sad.

Suddenly, he rose from the table, his movement as swift and fluid as a dancer's, but so abrupt that it made his chair fall back behind him. It crashed loudly to the floor, snapping me out of my haze. The room went silent as conversation came to a halt. Everyone who'd been previous unaware of what was going on turned and stared, wide-eyed, at the man at the other end of the table.

"Mr. Masen?" Gary asked cautiously, his baritone voice an octave higher.

But the beautiful man—Mr. Masen—was already leaving the house through the door that led to the backyard. His legs moved in long strides, almost faster than my head could keep up with.

"I'll go make sure he's all right," Gary said to Ian, but I put a restraining hand on his forearm to stop him from leaving the room.

"I think he's okay," I said, not really knowing if he was or not, but knowing that I didn't want Gary to go after him.

Breakfast continued, then, albeit somewhat more quietly than before, and as the minutes passed, I decided that the most logical explanation for how fucking trippy my encounter with Mr. Masen was, was that alcohol from the previous night must still be affecting me. _Somehow_…though I didn't know how that was possible.

Either way, no matter how many logical explanations my brain came up with, I didn't forget his coal black eyes or the way they'd made me feel so alive.

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**_Closing Notes:_**_ If anyone thinks Ian's apron is bizarre and/or hilarious, you might be interested to know that it's real, and I saw it for sale on Zazzle ages ago. I'll add a picture of it on the SotPM blog eventually._

_By the way, even though I have the song "I Kissed a Girl" in my iTunes library and have had it stuck in my head before, I fucking _loathe_ Katy Perry and her music (I have the deep-set need to express this to you all.), but it was absolute fate that her silly, attention-whore-grabbing song happened to be in the "hot 100" in August 2008, shortly before the time this chapter is set in. It seemed like a humorous song for Ian to be humming, and so that's that. _

_Finally, I admit to inserting a horribly geeky, silly Easter egg in this. If you want in on the "hilarity" (it's probably only hilarious to me), do a search for "Edgar Mallory." I await your one-handed clapping._

_Hope you all liked Bella's POV of their meeting. I know these are only outtakes, but I'd still love to hear from you in a review, so please consider leaving one if you've got a moment. :)_


	2. Sept 22, 2008: The Two Architects

**_Author's Notes (August 14, 2010):_**_ I'm shocked and pleased that you guys liked my Edgar Mallory joke in the first outtake. And so the nerds peek their heads out of the closets. You guys should approve of chapter seven when it comes out…_

_Here's the latest outtake. It sort of edges into chapter seven. Just to make it clear, chapter six ends on Sunday, September 21, 2008, so this is the following day in the Cullen house._

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**"SINS OF THE PIANO MAN OUTTAKES"**  
**CHAPTER 07 SIDETAKE: THE TWO ARCHITECTS**

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**ESME CULLEN**  
_September 22, 2008_

With light rain peppering down outside, I began drafting the plans for our next home in my office. We hadn't decided where we would go, and we had no intention to leave until we could. But I knew the time would come eventually, and I liked to be prepared. Even with an eternity stretched out before me, and no need to sleep, time had a way of slipping past me, especially since my own life had become so busy this year.

Part of the reason we weren't moving now, and were willingly risking exposure as it was, was because of Charlie and Bella Swan. Even with some nurses at the hospital becoming suspicious of my husband Carlisle's ageless features, Alice insisted that we stay, that _not_ caring for Charlie Swan was, in her words, "a very bad idea." She would never elaborate, no matter how much Rosalie prodded for answers.

As far as I was concerned, we needed no further reason to stay other than Charlie himself, who was quietly battling cancer with as much dignity as he could muster. If there was one thing I had a very soft spot for in my silent heart, it was when someone _needed_ me. The Swans needed us. It was just that simple to me, regardless of Alice's visions.

Charlie wasn't always pleased that Alice and I visited him almost daily with food and other human necessities, but he didn't send us away, either, after he swallowed some of his pride. How strange it was, that vampires should be aiding their "food," but that's what we did. The humans of Forks had disappointed me with their disregard for the former police chief. Without us, Charlie and Bella would be much worse off.

Just as I was beginning to draw out the plans for Carlisle's next office, I heard squealing car tires and kicked up gravel as Alice wheeled into our driveway, announcing her return from Charlie's home. She was driving unusually fast, even for her.

"Your wife's a little bat out of hell sometimes," I heard Emmett remark downstairs over the sound of video game gunfire.

"You just figure that out now?" was Jasper's reply.

"Esme, Esme, Esme, Esme!" Alice needlessly yelled as she sped up two flights of stairs and entered my office.

I looked up from my drafting table. I knew something was up if Alice bypassed saying hello to Jasper. "Is everything all right? Is it Charlie?"

Alice shook her head. "No, no, no. Charlie's okay. It's that offer you're considering—the one from David Winchester. Don't take it."

_She's concerned about real estate?_

Even after half a century of being in Alice's company, I was never quite sure where her flare for the dramatic ended and cause for true concern began. As such, I smiled and kept calm. "It's an excellent offer he's made," I said, thinking of the large, contemporary house that was set along the Elwha River. I'd put it up for sale two months ago, and David's was the only good offer I'd received.

"It is," she relented with a nod, "and you won't be offered that much again, _but_ it's really very, _very_ important that you don't take Mr. Winchester's offer."

"Have you had a vision?" I frowned. "We aren't in trouble, are we? No one suspects—"

"It's nothing like that," she replied with a wave of a pink, leather-gloved hand.

We had only one rule in our world: keep vampirism a secret from humans. Not doing so was very dangerous for all parties involved.

I sighed in relief. "What is it then?"

She frowned. "I can't go into detail right now. In fact, it'd probably be better if I'm the only one to know—less to keep up with then."

"Are you sure you can't tell me anything?"

Alice took a deep breath and smoothed out two minute wrinkles from her white blouse. She kept her eyes on the floor. "Selling this house to the right buyer is important, but I really can't share anymore than that yet. I've envisioned every scenario I can come up with, and I can never fix it… If I tell anyone too much right now, it always leads to someone dying."

I sucked in a breath before asking, "A human or one of us?" It was callous of me to feel that way. Any life lost should be considered a tragedy; however, I couldn't bear the thought of it being one of my own family members in peril, even if Alice was preventing the outcome by keeping secrets.

"Vampires _would_ be involved," she answered vaguely. She changed the subject. "Oh, and fully furnish the house by Wednesday, if you can. You can adjust the asking price accordingly. The buyer won't mind."

"_Wednesday_!" I was good at what I did—if I said so myself—but to decorate a home in a _day and a half_ was impossible, even for me. And who could possibly want a large home they were buying to be fully furnished? That was the sort of thing for apartments and condominiums, holiday homes—not spacious, two-story houses.

"You can do it," she said, her eyes glazing over as she navigated the future in her mind. "Yes, yes, you'll get everything ready. _It'll be perfect_!" She clapped her hands, apparently more than pleased with the future she was seeing.

"I'll have to start right away," I said, already feeling rather flustered. I rose from my drafting table and made to grab my purse, but Alice stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

"You can pick the furniture out with my help, but you can't set foot in the house. Neither can I."

I pulled away from her. "Now you wait just one minute, Alice Whitlock," I fumed, putting my hands on my hips. "It's one thing to want me to turn down a good offer, and even to decorate a home in so little time, but I _have_ to arrange the furniture myself. Is my not being in the house part of your vision, too?"

She shrugged and nodded. "It'll have to be humans who do it, Esme. They'll have to put in the furniture, and the agent will have to handle the sale. I'm sorry."

I wanted to tell Alice that she couldn't always get her way, but you learn after living nearly sixty years with someone that trust is important and should be given to those who've been loyal for so long. That was perhaps especially true among our coven; there weren't many humanitarian vampires in the world. At least putting your faith in a true clairvoyant was usually a positive experience. And so I didn't argue or complain as Alice thanked me and left the room.

I didn't have time for that, anyway. I had a house to prepare.


	3. Jan 24, 2006: Seven Stitches

**_Author's Notes (September 10, 2010):_**_ This is the first outtake that takes place in the past. Bella's voice will sound different here, because she hasn't been through the same things as the Bella of the present/2008. If I've done this properly, she should sound like canon Bella. _

_Several chunks of text in this outtake are directly quoted from "New Moon." They've either been altered slightly or mixed in with my work to fit the SotPM universe. No infringement is intended, of course, but this definitely gets into the realm of remix writing._

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**"SINS OF THE PIANO MAN OUTTAKES"**  
**PAST-TAKE: SEVEN STITCHES**

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**ISABELLA SWAN**  
_January 24, 2006_

Shortly after New Year's, I'd noticed the Markses, who lived in Forks, had a couple of dilapidated motorcycles in their front lawn. Even though they'd had a sign on them—_For Sale, As Is_—the Marks boy who'd met me at the door to their home had given them away for free. Hundreds of dollars worth of parts—also known as money from my meager college fund—and several long hours in Jacob's greasy garage, and Jacob and I had two mostly-roadworthy bikes.

Charlie would ground me until I was thirty if he ever found out we were riding motorcycles, which is why we'd kept everything down at the La Push reservation, where Jacob lived.

Reckless and stupid. Those were Charlie's two very favorite words to apply to motorcycles.

Charlie's job didn't get a lot of action compared to cops in bigger towns, but he did get called in on traffic accidents. With the long, wet stretches of freeway twisting and turning through the forest, blind corner after blind corner, there was no shortage of _that_ kind of action. But even with all the huge log-haulers barreling around the turns, mostly people walked away. The exceptions to that rule were often on motorcycles, and Charlie had seen one too many victims, almost always kids, smeared on the highway. He'd made me promise before I was ten that I would never accept a ride on a motorcycle.

I should have always wanted to keep the promise I'd made, and I had, until I saw these. These bikes had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Jake loved building things. I loved spending time with Jake and wanted to be a part of that process. It seemed simple: get a couple of old, beat-up bikes, rebuild them, and spend some time together.

Now, I wasn't so sure.

"I can't believe you really want to do this," Jacob said with a huge, toothy grin on his youthful face. He looked _almost_ as excited as the first time we'd kissed.

"I can't either," I muttered as I sat astride my heavy, red-painted machine. I was beginning to feel wary and maybe a little bit of buyer's remorse. This was definitely going down as the most reckless, rebellious thing I'd ever done, under either of my parents' noses. I knew I was a teenager and all, but really, I knew better.

Jacob didn't notice my steadily increasing anxiety. "Okay, where's your clutch?"

I pointed to the lever on my left handlebar. Letting go of the grip was a mistake. The heavy bike wobbled underneath me, threatening to knock me sideways. I grabbed the handle again, trying to hold it straight.

"Jacob, it won't stay up," I whined.

"You've never had that complaint with me before," he replied cheekily.

I tried to give him my most menacing look, even as heat rose to my face at the thought of how we'd been tangled up just an hour ago, when we'd had Billy's house to ourselves.

"Okay, okay," he laughed, not sounding sorry at all. "Don't worry about it, though. The bike'll stay up when you're moving. Now, where's your brake?"

"Behind my right foot."

"Wrong."

He grabbed my right hand and curled my fingers around the lever over the throttle. I grinned, momentarily distracted by his touch, before wondering what he was doing.

"But you said—"

"This is the brake you want. Don't use the back brake now. That's for later, when you know what you're doing."

"That doesn't sound right," I said suspiciously. "Aren't both brakes kind of important?"

"Forget the back brake, okay? Here—" He wrapped his hand around mine and made me squeeze the lever down. "_That_ is how you brake. Don't forget." He squeezed my hand another time, and this time our fingers interlaced.

"Okay," I agreed.

By the time we'd gone over the throttle and gearshift, my stomach was contorting strangely. What was I doing? This was so stupid. We could get ourselves killed.

But then, I _always_ played it safe. It might be good to get out of my comfort zone a bit. Renée was always saying I should, even now that I had a boyfriend. Of course, she wasn't talking about motorcycling when she said that, either. She was talking about parties and high heels.

As I held on tightly, Jacob kick-started the motorcycle. It took four kicks before the ignition caught, but once it did, the bike was roaring and snarling beneath me. He had me test out the throttle once it was running, then asked, "Do you remember how to put it into first gear?"

"Yes," I answered stiffly, my nerves going haywire.

"Well, go ahead and do it."

"Okay."

He waited for a few seconds.

"Left foot," he prompted.

"I _know_," I said, taking a deep breath.

Jacob reached out and wrapped his fingers around my wrists. His touch soothed me as he leaned in close to my face. "Sure you want to do this? You're looking a little scared."

"I—I'm okay."

Jacob kissed my cheek before releasing my wrists. "You'll do fine."

I kicked the gearshift down one notch.

"See? Just fine!" he praised me. "Now, _very_ gently, ease up on the clutch."

He took a step away from the bike.

"You want me to let go of the grenade?" I asked in disbelief. No wonder he was moving back.

"That's how you move, Bells. Just do it little by little."

As I began to loosen my grip, I was shocked to find my adrenaline pumping not fear, but nervous excitement through my veins. Flight had turned to fight, and suddenly I wanted to face this fear of mine. This might be reckless and stupid, but it was _my_ reckless and stupid. It was secret and forbidden and _my_ choice.

My hand slipped off the clutch.

The bike buckled under me, yanking me forward and then collapsing to the ground half on top of me. The growling engine choked to a stop.

"Bella?" Jacob jerked the heavy bike off of me with ease. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I whispered, looking at the motorcycle in wonderment. "I want to go again. I didn't hurt the bike, did I?"

"No," he laughed. "You just stalled the engine. You let go of the clutch too fast."

I nodded. "Okay. Again. Come on."

Jacob laughed at my impatience. "Are you sure?"

"_Positive_."

This time, Jacob let me kick-start it. It took a dozen inexperienced tries before the engine caught and roared to life under me. Remembering to hold onto the grenade, I revved the throttle experimentally. It snarled at the slightest touch. My smile mirrored Jacob's now.

"Ease on the clutch," he reminded me. "Then ease off slowly."

"I will," I answered, but my mind was already a million miles away, dreaming about speeding along windy, downhill roads. I could do this.

Shaking through my excitement, I tried to focus and relax my hand by tiny degrees. Suddenly, the gear caught and wrenched me forward.

And I was flying.

There was wind that wasn't there before, blowing my skin against my skull and flinging my hair back behind me with enough force that it felt like someone was tugging on it. I'd left my stomach back at the starting point; the adrenaline coursed through my body, tingling in my veins. The trees raced past me, blurring into a wall of green.

So _this_ was what freedom was.

_This_ was what it felt like to stare death in the face and laugh.

But this was only first gear. My foot itched toward the gearshift as I twisted for more gas, more speed, more of _this_.

I was flying even faster, laughing more loudly at death, until I saw the road starting to curve to the left. I was still going straight. Jacob hadn't told me how to turn.

"Brakes, brakes," I muttered to myself, and I instinctively slammed down with my right foot, like I would in my truck.

It was a mistake, and suddenly I wasn't laughing at death. It was maybe laughing at me. I lost control of the bike, and at a speed far too fast for my safety, it spun out and dragged me with it toward the dirt road's surrounding tree line. It flew out until it hit something stationary, where it fell on top of me again. I landed face-first into moss and rocky, muddy sand.

"Bella!" Jacob yelled, and I heard the roar of the other bike cut off.

The motorcycle no longer pinned me to the ground, and I rolled over to breathe. Jacob turned off the ignition to my bike, and the silence that fell after it was almost eerie. I heard a bird calling out raucously from one of the trees.

"Wow," I murmured as I stared up at the hazy January sky.

"Bella!" Jacob was crouching over me anxiously. "Bella, are you alive?"

I laughed somewhat hysterically, unsure as to whether my adrenaline rush still had me excited or was turning my bones into jell-o. "I'm great." I smiled at Jacob. "Can we go again?"

"I don't think so." He still sounded worried. "I think I'd better drive you to the hospital first."

"I'm fine."

"Um, Bella? You've got a huge cut on your forehead, and it's gushing blood," he informed me.

I clapped my hand over my head. Sure enough, it was wet and sticky, and it would probably need stitches. Even though I could only smell the damp moss around me, the knowledge that I was bleeding buckets was enough to turn my stomach. I breathed deeply through my mouth as Jacob put an arm around my waist and helped me to my feet. "Ugh. Sorry I've blown our afternoon. What about the bikes?" I asked, frowning to where they were lying on their sides in the dirt.

"Bella, I'm just glad you're okay," Jacob said, gently squeezing me into his warm side. "You're more important than a couple of old bikes."

He looked off toward my truck, and I looked with him. I was surprised to see how far I'd gone. I could barely see the truck.

Wow. I'd gone _so_ fast. It didn't seem like I should have gone that far in that little bit of time.

"I'll get the truck and bring it back here," he said. Then, with a mischievous grin, he stepped away from me a little and pulled off his shirt.

Even after seeing him naked several times, I still blushed to see his taut stomach and long lines of corded muscle. Jacob was _very_ easy on the eyes. Noticing my stare, he grinned even more. "Jake? What are you—"

"It's for your head," he said softly, wadding the T-shirt up and handing it to me. He brought my hand up with it and pressed it to my forehead. "Apply pressure to it, and that should help."

He didn't have to tell me. This was hardly the first head wound I'd suffered over the years, and I was sure it wouldn't be the last. I could be wrapped in bubble wrap and still manage to get injured.

Taking my keys from me, Jacob mounted his bike again, easily kick-started it to life, and rode away toward the truck. I was envious of how professionally he rode, without any wobbling or jerkiness. He looked beautiful, and I smiled a little, knowing he was mine.

We'd definitely be doing this again, I decided. I wouldn't let a little head wound deter me. The _rush_ I'd gotten…

The longer I stood, the less dizzy I felt, but Jacob was in a barely-concealed panic as he sped the truck back to where I stood and rushed around, effortlessly lifting our bikes into the truck bed, one by one, as if they were no trouble at all. I got into the passenger's side and tried not to bleed all over the place.

After a bit of arguing, I managed to talk Jacob into taking me back home to change. There was _no way_ I was going to the hospital with mud-caked jeans, looking like I'd just had a motorcycle accident. Charlie was sure to hear of it. If I just went in with a blow to the head, it'd be okay. Then everyone would just say, "Oh, that's Bella Swan for you." Cleaned up from the wound down, my excuse was that I tripped in Jacob's garage and hit my head on a hammer.

It was a pretty good excuse, all things considered.

They knew me by name at the hospital, and not just because Charlie was chief of the police. Charlie had once joked that it was too bad insurance didn't come with bonus points for frequent users, because I was so excellent at making claims.

I hated hospitals, but it could have been worse. After all, Forks had Dr. Carlisle Cullen, who, if you had to get injured and go to the ER, wasn't such a bad side effect of visiting.

Dr. Cullen was an excellent doctor and had pieced my shattered jaw back together in just a couple of surgeries. I still had a nasty scar, but it could have been so much worse. He'd also been the one to put me in my leg cast last year—shortly after my second jaw surgery—when I clumsily broke my leg trying to play touch football with Jacob and his friends on the reservation.

Last year had been a really bad year for my physical wellbeing.

Of course, it wasn't just that Dr. Cullen was a great doctor. He was a breathtakingly gorgeous man, too, which is part of what made a visit not so bad. No matter the time of day I came in, he always looked polished and perfect. With his blonde hair and interestingly brown-golden eyes, he looked like a movie star, like one of those flawlessly-airbrushed models on magazine covers—maybe even better than that, if that was possible. The worst I'd seen him was when he'd removed my cast and looked a little tired, with circles under his eyes. It was always funny to watch the nurses vie for his attention.

With Jacob holding my hand, we waited for Dr. Cullen in the little room we'd _finally_ been directed to after three hours in the larger waiting room. I squeezed Jacob's fingers. "Are you sure it's okay for you to be in here with me? I don't want to get you into trouble." I bit my lip anxiously.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I know Billy is a bit weird about the Cullens, and I _am_ seeing Dr. Cullen…"

Jacob shrugged and gave me a lopsided smile. "Yeah, it's silly superstitions he gets worked up over, though. I don't have a problem with the Cullens. Just don't tell Dad I was here when Dr. Cullen saw you, okay?"

I nodded. "Okay. And you won't tell anyone about the bikes?"

His eyes twinkled as he rubbed at my index finger, along the woven-leather promise ring he'd given me on New Year's Eve. "Nope. It's our secret."

I tilted my head up for a kiss, which Jacob happily granted.

Dr. Cullen stepped into the room as we separated. As usual, he was immaculate in every way.

"Hello, again, Bella." His voice was smooth and melodic, like the kind you expected to hear on one of those books on tape series. He already sounded post-produced and flawless.

I blushed as he chuckled at me. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to be back in here for at least another year." He flashed a friendly grin, and then looked over at Jacob. "Aren't you Billy Black's son?" he asked.

Jacob seemed surprised that Dr. Cullen knew him. "Er…yep."

"Nice meeting you." Dr. Cullen nodded with another smile but didn't say anything else. He glanced at my chart briefly before putting it aside. "A fall on a hammer, huh?"

"Yep," I murmured, not meeting his eyes.

His fingers touched my head, and they were cool, as always. It was often a little shocking at first, how cold his hands always seemed to be, but then it was soothing. He touched with such gentle pressure that it was more like his fingers danced across your skin than poked and prodded. "Strangely-shaped hammer," he commented with a lifted brow.

I looked at him, wide-eyed, as he began shining a penlight right into my eyes. I blinked rapidly.

"What actually happened, Bella?" he asked with a knowing smile. "It's better if I have the whole story." The light switched off in his hands, and he returned it to his shirt pocket.

"You can't tell my dad," I said in a panic. "He'd kill me."

Dr. Cullen's eyes seemed to light in amusement as he shook his head. "You're right. I _can't _tell him." He smiled slightly. "_Even_ if it might be for your own good that I do so. You're not a minor anymore, Bella. Doctor-patient confidentiality extends a lot further now."

"Oh?" I gasped. "_Oh_."

So this was what it felt like to get away with something.

I bit at my lip before coming clean. "I fell off a bike."

"A motorbike," Jacob clarified beside me. "And it wasn't a fall. She _crashed_."

I glared at him from the corner of my eye.

"I see." Dr. Cullen lifted a container to my forehead and warned, "This might burn, but it will disinfect and numb the cut." Covering my eyes with his hand, he sprayed something into the open gash, and I hissed in pain before thankfully losing all feeling in and around the wound.

Jacob continued to stand by and hold my hand as Dr. Cullen had me lie back on a padded, paper-covered table. He picked up some tools from a tray and began stitching my forehead back together. "Were you two on the reservation when this happened?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said.

His eyes darted to Jacob before returning to the task at my forehead. "You need to be careful. There aren't as many people on the reservation as there are in Forks. Should you get seriously injured on a back road, it might take a long time for someone to find you." His blonde brow knit together, and for the first time in the many times I'd seen Dr. Cullen over the last year, he looked rather worried. "I would hate for you to get hurt and be where no one could get to you."

"Sorry," I murmured, because even though I only knew Dr. Cullen from these visits to the hospital, it just seemed _wrong_ to disappoint or worry him. He so obviously wanted what was best for his patients.

His brow smoothed, and he patted my shoulder. "Just _please_ wear a helmet next time." He looked over at Jacob. "That goes for you, too, Jacob."

We agreed that we would as he finished up my stitches.

"I don't get why Dad doesn't like Dr. Cullen," Jacob remarked as we exited the hospital a little while later, with instructions that I be woken up every couple of hours, in case I had a concussion.

"Yeah, he's a really nice man," I said with a smile.

Jacob helped me up into the passenger's seat of my truck. "Yeah, you seemed to think so." He widened his eyes at me and blinked flirtatiously. "You kept going all glassy-eyed every time he got near you," he teased.

"Did not!" I laughed, but I was trying to hold back a blush.

"Did, too," he countered. "It's okay, though. He's way too old for you."

"He's not _that_ old," I teased back as Jacob pulled out of the hospital parking lot. "He's really young for a doctor. I don't think he's even thirty."

"Well, older than you, and I'm still more your type." He laced the fingers of his right hand with mine. I smiled at him.

"Love you, Jake," I said in the sing-song voice I only used with him.

"Love you, too, Bells." He grinned.

"Jake…"

"Yeah?"

"Can we go again sometime soon—on the bikes?"

"Sure, sure," he laughed. "Helmets next time?"

My head was throbbing. "Definitely."

* * *

**_Closing Notes:_**_ A lot of you who are Edward and Bella lovers (and believe me, I am, too) have wanted me to make Jacob out to be a bastard, but as you can see from this, he and Bella had a really sweet, normal relationship when they were teens. Jacob's not a bad guy in SotPM. He's just a victim of circumstance, much like all the other characters, really._


	4. Feb 13, 1987: Lost

**_Author's Notes (May 7, 2011):_**_ This outtake was originally part of the Fandoms Fight the Floods Queensland, Australia relief effort. I'm supposedly not meant to post this 'til July or some craziness, but since this effort ended in late March, I'm going to break some rules._

* * *

**"SINS OF THE PIANO MAN OUTTAKES"**  
**CHAPTER 01 OUTTAKE: LOST**

* * *

**RENÉE SWAN**  
_February 13, 1987, 12:32 a.m._

The elevator can't go fast enough. "Come on, come on, come _on_," I urge it as tears fall down my cheeks.

_We'll get home, baby_, I promise the nameless little person inside. _I'm so sorry about tonight. I knew it was wrong to come, but I did it anyway… It'll be all right now, though. Don't be afraid. I promise it'll be okay._

It isn't easy thinking these things when I'm terrified of the man upstairs. No, not a man. He isn't a man, I know. He's a creature, a dark angel who's called me out on my sins. I feel dirty and chastised.

With a soft and indifferent _ding!_, the elevator opens up to the extravagant lobby. It's not as beautiful to me as it was an hour ago; now it's just a place for me to pass through as quickly as possible on my way back home. I wipe tears from my eyes and glance at the front desk, where a handsome young man in a suit and tie is sorting through a pile of papers.

I hesitate. Should I go to him? Should I tell him that there's someone upstairs who said he wanted to kill me? _I should call the police_.

Gasping, I bring these thoughts to an abrupt halt. Can Edward still hear what I'm thinking? He told me he'd know if I ever talked about this night. I believe him. _I won't tell anyone_, I chant in my head, over and over, just in case he can hear me. _I won't tell anyone. I promise._

_You can't tell anyone, anyway_, I reason with myself. Because how can you say that someone read your mind? How can you tell them that you ran away from your husband, endangered your unborn child?

More importantly, _Charlie_, my sweet, mild-mannered husband, can never know about tonight. He's already insecure. To find out I've been in another's hotel room… He would be heartbroken by my betrayal. _I'm_ heartbroken in my own way.

I take a cab back to the bar where I met Edward. It's past midnight, but if I drive through the night, I'll maybe make it back to Forks before Charlie gets up for training. He's working so hard to become a cop. And what have I done? I've run away. I've put everything at risk. What's _wrong_ with me?

* * *

The four-hour drive isn't easy. I've been getting tired all the time lately, and my nerves are shot after all that's happened. Twice, I nearly sideswipe another car on the highway. I've never really been a great driver, and intermittent crying doesn't help.

I guess the fatigue's one of the first signs of pregnancy. Keeping a tight hold on the steering wheel with my left hand, I rest my right over my abdomen. _Are you there?_ I wonder in silence. _Who are you? Who will you become? Will you ever be able to love someone like me? I don't know how to be a mom…_

But I'm going to be one. Edward, the fear he instilled, made it real to me.

It's no longer a matter of _if_ or even _when_. I've fucked that up. We've fucked that up. _When_ is now according to this other creature's time, this thing that is a baby, will be a baby, will be a child. Will be mine. Will be Charlie's.

Can I really do this?

Charlie will know, I think, and I'm warmed by this hopeful thought that allows me to lay the burden on someone else's shoulders for a little while. No one wants me at the helm. I'm no good at being a responsible adult. I'm late to all my appointments. I forget to pay the bills. No one likes my cooking. They think I don't know that. I know it. All our white underwear is pink, because I've washed the wrong colored clothing together—more than once. People think I don't know I'm this way—flighty, erratic—but I do. I just simply don't know how to change it. How do you turn that off?

It's me. I'm flawed.

I'm thirsty.

At least…at least a baby is a shared responsibility. Knowing Charlie will hold my hand the whole way allows me to breathe a little more easily. He's a constant man, and he loves me, even though he shouldn't, even though he probably deserves much better. Especially after tonight.

Yes, Charlie will know what to do. He always knows. He's a quiet, grounding force in my life, the rope that tethers me to the earth when I'm trying to float away like a helium balloon on the loose. I resent him for it sometimes, because sometimes, I _want_ to fly away—glide through a cloud-filled sky, touch the bright yellow sun. But Charlie knows I'm Icarus, that I can't fly for as long as I sometimes think I might be able to, that the sun will of course burn my fingers. Most of the time, I know that he knows best. That's why I love him, why I married him. He dots the I's and crosses the T's that I forget.

_Charlie will know what to do_, I tell my tiny companion. _Your daddy will know._

* * *

I arrive home around five in the morning, but Charlie's not asleep like I thought he'd be. He's awake, sitting out on the front porch steps with a cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger. The pale morning light falls on his handsome features, and I'm reminded, all over again, of how stupid I've been. How did I _ever_ think that going to Seattle was okay, was even the right thing to do? Hindsight and I are not good friends.

I turn the car engine off, and Charlie and I stare at each other across the small distance. I give him a hesitant, awkward wave. He arches a bushy brow and flicks his ashes into the wind where they float away. I wish I could float with them.

_Time to face the music._

I walk up to the porch and sit beside him on the steps. They're dampened by endless humidity. I hate this weather. I miss dry heat and warm sunshine. I haven't had a tan in a year. It's rarely warm and sunny in Forks, but Charlie loves it. He can't see himself living anywhere else. I struggle to see myself staying here for the next year, much less forever.

How are we going to make everything work?

Why am I pregnant? Not _why_. Why now? Why did we get married so young? Why, why, why?

He dots my I's and crosses my T's. I _need_ that.

"Hey," I say after we've sat for a while. I'm hoarse from crying in the car, and my voice cracks even on the one word.

Charlie sighs. "Where have you been? I've been worried sick all night—haven't slept a wink." I can tell it's true. He's got puffy, dark circles under his eyes. I think he's maybe even cried a little, but I know better than to mention that. "I even called your mother, but she didn't know where you were, either," he adds, and we both laugh, despite the tension. Charlie hates dealing with Mom. She gives him a hard time.

Of course, that he _did_ deal with her just shows how worried he actually was. I squirm under the weight of an ever-growing guilt.

I opt to be as truthful as possible, which won't be all that truthful, all things considered. "I went to Seattle," I tell him.

It's an answer, and he relaxes a little once he has it to chew on. Charlie can handle a mystery, handle not knowing everything, so long as he's got a few details.

"Seattle?" He doesn't even sound all that surprised. He's learned to expect the unexpected with me. I know it's one of the things he loves about me—that I surprise him—but it makes me sad. He deserves someone who's as consistent as he is.

"I just needed to get away."

"Think you got far enough?" he asks wryly. He has an unspoken fear that I'll leave him one day. I know it's eating at him now.

All I do is nod, because I did get far enough away—far enough to realize I needed to come back.

I reach over and take his hand. It's callused and warm, despite the chill in the air. I trace the lines of his palm and fingers, think of palm readers and fate and life lines, and how I'm moving along my own life line much faster than I'd ever planned to. And I guess _that's_ because of fate. It certainly doesn't feel like I have any control over my life.

I feel so young to be doing so many adult things—life-altering decision making and marriage and mortgage and baby. Then what? Stretch marks and midlife crises? It seems like someone else's life story, but isn't. It's mine. It's just so far off from anything I'd ever thought it would be. I have dreams, and I can't help but wonder where they're all floating off to—maybe with Charlie's cigarette ash. Why can't I keep my dreams tied down to the earth, like Charlie manages to keep me?

_Stop thinking of yourself_, Edward had said. And he's right. I need to be less selfish.

_I, I, I_. I use the word too much.

"Charlie?"

Sensing my discomfort, he leans into me and looks at my face with those endless brown eyes. "What is it?" He's clearly afraid of what I'm about to say.

I am, too, but probably for entirely different reasons.

It takes a minute for me to gather up the courage to say it, and once I do, it comes out in a strangled whisper. "I'm pregnant," I finally say. It's the first time I've uttered those words, but they're somehow strangely freeing—not as scary as I thought they'd be, at least not when spoken to Charlie. I let out a deep breath.

The lines in Charlie's face relax suddenly, and he lights up with his golden smile, the one that reveals the dimple in his cheek and says that everything's going to be okay. He pulls his hand away from mine, so he can wrap his arm around my shoulders and hug me close. "Well, that's all right, then," he says with a stunned laugh. "A surprise, but all right." He kisses the top of my head, and I can feel him vibrating with joy and excitement. "It's more than all right."

"Do you really think that?" I ask. We're living in a small house in the middle of nowhere. _Podunk_, my mother calls it. That's what I think the humidity smells like. And Charlie's only _training_ to be a cop right now, and even when he is an officer, a small town cop doesn't make a whole lot. Women without degrees get paid even less. We're fucked, as far as I can see.

I'm not ready to be a mom. I'm going to be one, anyway.

"Shit," Charlie mutters, and I panic, thinking he's on the same freefalling wavelength that I'm on, but then I realize he's just rushing to put out the cigarette that's burned down to a nub in his fingers. "I'll have to quit these things," he says resolutely. He kisses my cheek. "Everything'll work out, 'Nee. You'll see. This is a good thing."

He's grinning again—big, happy. My thoughts calm a little. We'll be okay. Maybe.

* * *

Charlie decides not to go into training today. Instead, he sits with me, holds my right hand as I eat cereal and a Pop-Tart for breakfast. He tries to talk me into pancakes at the diner, but I love Pop-Tarts. He asks when I found out about the baby, if I've made an appointment with the doctor yet, if I want a boy or a girl or _twins!—_could it be twins? God, I hope we're not having twins. I've never had much of a figure; I don't want to lose what little of one I've got.

He holds back my hair as I throw up most all of my breakfast an hour later. It's the third time it's happened in as many days. I'd just thought I had a bug.

I'm so stupid.

He helps me pull off my clothes, and we shower together, hold each other beneath hot water that burns and clears my head. I'm thankful that he doesn't ask any questions about the night I've spent away from him. He doesn't ask, because he's so happy that it doesn't even occur to him _to_ ask. I feel the happiness with him every now and again—a little flutter of hope, a little excitement over this invisible third person that is unequivocally ours, but still a stranger. I'm afraid, so afraid, but his joy makes me curious and more accepting.

_Who will you become? _I wonder again.

As we lie in bed together, curled like spoons, resting but not sleeping, I think about how this baby connects us forever—to each other, to the universe. Maybe everything will be okay. Maybe…but I don't totally believe it yet. Everything feels too surreal—from finding out I'm pregnant, to running to Seattle, to meeting Edward, and coming home and telling Charlie. Maybe I'm lost in some dream about another woman's life. Part of me wants to be dreaming, while the other wants to be wide awake. It doesn't matter what I want, though, because I know I _am_ awake.

Charlie rests a hand over my still flat stomach and whispers that he loves me. He doesn't say those words often, but when he does, I'm brought back to the present. Then he kisses my neck and does something that surprises me—surprises me, because of how much I like it. He whispers to the baby, and I smile in spite of my fear. He's my constant.

Watching the hazy light of a cloud-obscured sunrise, I think of Edward. I'm already questioning what I saw, what I felt, what happened. Edward—whoever, _whatever_ he was—doesn't feel so real now. Charlie's real. Charlie's warm and breathing and living behind me. It's hard to believe I was trying to throw that all away just hours ago.

I do those things, though—panic and struggle blindly.

_Be a fucking adult, _Edward had yelled in the penthouse, and I need to be. So badly.

My mind stores the memory of Edward in a corner where I see him as an angel full of wrath and reprisal. But I also remember his concern for the one I carry within, the one I don't know how to love yet, but will keep no matter what, the one I strangely owe my life to. _Perhaps Edward is a guardian angel_, I think—here to protect the baby from my fickle ways. Everyone says God works in mysterious ways, after all. I believe it now. It's the only way I can explain the strange events of the night.

As I descend into cottony dreams, I send a little prayer to the angel who both scared me and led me back home. Resting a hand over Charlie's, I pray, _Keep us safe._

* * *

_**Closing Notes:** As you know, Queensland isn't the only place hit by natural disasters this year. Consider donating money/time to help those in need._


End file.
